Afterwards
by BBCRULES
Summary: Mrs. Hudson, John, and Sherlock haven't met since Sherlock retired and moved to Sussex. One cold Febuaray, after three years, John and Sherlock make a last visit to their landlady. (indirectly) Character death. Thanks for reading. My salute to AreYouReady for the wonderful betareading. Since it had been such a long time since the last posting, please review:-)


Pale sunlight penetrated the glass and made a stark contrast of light and shadow on the white wall. A tall rangy man in his late forties or early fifties was sitting on a chair near a bed. The bed was empty. The man looked as if he were praying. The occupant of the bed had been wheeled out an hour ago, but the hospital staff didn't dare to interrupt the man in the room.

It was early February. The blizzard of the last weekend had caused a traffic hell across the country. Weather extremes… People needed to learn how to live with them.

A cab crawled to a halt. A blond man in brown coat threw a few more notes than the due charge, got out of the cab and hurriedly walked into the building. It was very fortunate for him that there was only a few hours delay, and that he had found a cab driver who dared to drive. He ran to the second floor and stopped at the nurse station. He murmured a few questions to the nurse in charge, and gave a nod to the nurse when he offered some condolences, pointing at the far end of the aisle.

The man's eyes darted from one door to the other, until they found the right one. He took a deep breath and gently opened the door after a knock. The man in the dark coat didn't stir. His eyes were wondering somewhere else.

The newcomer looked at the empty bed, and turned his attention to the man. His eyes scrutinized his best friend. The last time they had met had been about three years ago. There were not many new wrinkles on his face, but his hair looked more grayish; his eyes were as emerald as ever, with the same penetrating gaze. The two men had shared a flat in central London for years. But then, their lives had drifted apart. They did correspond frequently with e-mails, texts, and calls, but they hadn't met since Sherlock moved to Sussex. John had opened his own practice to help soldiers with traumas and had been very busy; Sherlock had taken a sudden interest in apiology, and purchased a bee farm. He sent jars of honey that he harvested himself to the doctor at Christmas.

"Sherlock."

The ex-detective only realized that he had been joined by his friend when the door clicked closed. It was John's assuring voice, the one that let others feel nothing was wrong. He had heard that _his old _army buddies called it "the calm-crisis voice." But the voice, apparently, had lost its magic. Sherlock turned his head towards the doctor.

"John."

The voice came out rather steady for a man who had just suffered such a loss. It was so typical of Sherlock. He barely showed any emotions. As far as John remembered, Sherlock had kept his composure even at the funeral of his only brother, Mycroft. His eyes had been dry and the voice had been steady. With efficiency, Sherlock had dealt with Mycroft's will and inheritance issues along with the funeral. Since then, the detective spent hours playing the violin or poring over books on insects. For weeks, he had rarely gone to the crime scenes. Instead, thick files had been sent to his flat, and he'd called Lestrade and talked about the cases. Those close to the detective had known something was going on beneath the calm surface. They'd walked on eggshells around Sherlock Holmes. John, who had moved out much earlier, had temporarily moved back in for a couple of weeks to stay with him. Mrs. Hudson had also been about to dispose the flat and enter a nursing home. She'd asked if Sherlock was interested in the building: he could afford to buy it with inheritance from his brother. To her surprise, Sherlock said no. He'd said Baker Street without Mrs. H could not be the same, while John and the landlady had exchanged a look.

On the night that Greg Lestrade officially retired from the yard, Sherlock had invited John and Greg over. They sat as Mrs. Hudson brought up a tray of tea. Sherlock made the announcement that he planned to retire and purchase his own bee farm. The Yard would have done anything to keep Sherlock as its consulting detective, yet Sherlock had decided not to renew the contract. The decision wasn't from a momentary whim. It was Mycroft's untimely and sudden death from the tumor, (inoperable), that eventually had retired the detective off the field. Mycroft-less London was not a place that the detective could live.

The previous afternoon, John had gotten an urgent text from Sherlock, and bought the airplane ticket right away. Although the storm stopped days earlier, many reservations were cancelled and he'd managed to acquire a ticket after hours of clicking and calling airliners. He dragged the second chair and sat closer to Sherlock.

"Are you okay? I am so sorry that I am late. The blizzard…"

"No one blames you, John. She understood."

At this John shut his mouth up and looked around the room. Sherlock avoided the eye contact. His emerald eyes stayed calm, but they revealed a sorrow that would linger for a long time.

"Did she feel any pain?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. They gave her quite strong opioid. She was comfortable, I believe."

Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds, and then carried on.

"She was almost unconscious. The doctors told me that she was nearing the end when I got here. I texted you."

John's face hardened a bit, and Sherlock hastily added to make it clear that he wasn't blaming John for not making it.

"I talked about silly things for an hour; your practice, bees, Lestrade's grandchildren, grocery prices... I think she knew it was me."

Their eyes met briefly.

"She suddenly opened her eyes and stared at me. She focused on my face and smiled. A weak squeeze…Then…she was gone."

John silently cursed himself for uttering out the typical "doctor's" line but what else could he do? He was too used to consoling the people in bereavement.

"Mrs. Hudson is out of her pain, now. She's… alright."

There was a cautious knock on the door. A nurse's freckly face appeared from the door.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but you have some paperwork to deal with… Mr. Holmes? Mrs. Hudson designated Mr. Sherlock Holmes as her next-of-kin so…"

Sherlock stood up as the chair creaked out protest. John said,

"Take your time. And we have to make arrangement about her funeral. I will pack her things."

As the detective strode out of the room, following the nurse, John found a large bag and started to work. A citrus fragrance lingered as he opened the closet. While neatly folding the clothes, John's mouth watered, because the smell reminded him of the apple pie that Mrs. Hudson used to bake. Angry with himself for caring about such a meaningless thing at a time like this, the doctor continued packing.

He finished the work in a jiffy, as the landlady hadn't brought that many things. It would take more time at her nursing home where Mrs. Hudson had stayed for a couple of years. They would contact Mrs. Hudson's legal counselor first before anything. Well, that could wait after the funeral.

John sat down after placing the bag on the bed. He had lost many people on the battlefield or in hospitals. Personally he had outlived his parents, and his wife, Mary. His mind wondered back to the time when he buried Mary. After the funeral, John would break down at a smallest reminder of Mary. He had tried to keep composed. It was difficult. People around him had seemed to feel obliged to console him. That was unbearable; all the sympathetic comments hurled at him. He hated the "widower" treatment, but people had kept knocking the door with containers of food as if John couldn't feed himself. One night, he just wasn't able to stand it anymore. The only place that John was able to breathe was 221B. John moved back and Mrs. Hudson had welcomed his return. Sherlock had stayed distant, solving crimes with Lestrade and acted as if nothing had happened. He hadn't made a fuss over John's mood; nor had he grilled him for staying at home. From time to time he had invited the doctor to crime scenes, but he'd never forced it on him. Very strangely, Sherlock's indifference was healing. The doctor had been able to sleep while the violin played downstairs. He started to make morning tea for himself and Sherlock.

John did the same when Mycroft died two months after the cancer diagnosis. He'd tried to look away, forced food on his friend, and scolded him about the messy kitchen or clogged toilet. He'd acted as if nothing bad had happened. Mrs. Hudson did the same. Some people would say it was outrageous to see the detective recover from the death of the brother so quickly. Only John and Mrs. Hudson knew how vulnerable the man was. Wounded, Sherlock had needed a cave to hide and recover in. Despite the bickering with Mycroft, Sherlock loved him in his own peculiar way and seemed to be at a loss when Mycroft had kidnapped John and him to the office and dropped the bomb - Mycroft couldn't quit his job right away for matters of national significance were so urgent. It was three weeks later that he'd finally sent his letter of resignation and said good-bye to the staff.

Now Sherlock and John had lost someone that was so important to their lives, a mother figure. Although they'd known her death was a sure thing, it was still hard to take in. In the room with her things and the perfume, John could hear Mrs. Hudson scolding them for the untidy kitchen, odors from cadaver samples, and leaky loo.

"Oh, Mrs. H. If only I could taste your muffins and tea…."

John muttered to himself. The door opened and Sherlock walked in the room. Mrs. Hudson's body would be moved to the funeral house nearby. Now they had to go to the nursing home. Fortunately John had asked the cab driver to stay. For the last check, Sherlock opened closet and drawers to see if there was any item left. John was carrying the bag out when Sherlock's calm voice stopped him.

"John. Look."

In the drawer was a small frame that had a picture of the three in formal suits. It was almost the only and last picture of them together. Mrs. Hudson was all smiles and looked wonderful in her new flowery dress; Sherlock in his suit was pouty, as he'd been forced to wear a tie. It was right before Mrs. Hudson had left Baker Street, going to a nursing home. She'd had to use a cane due to her hip condition. Despite her cheery pretense, she'd had to take a lot of painkillers. The building had had to be vacated in a month and Sherlock was about to move to Sussex the following week. John smiled at the memory.

"The good old times… She's lovely."

"That was the only time that I ever had to wear a tie. I didn't even wear one for the queen, even though Mycroft was threatening to kill me if I didn't."

The two men gazed at the photo, reminiscing the past. John said,

"She would make her new heavenly flat ready for us…somewhere up there."

"I agree. I can see her beady eyes glaring at the clogged toilet."

They smiled, and walked out of the room.

* * *

AN

Hello, guys. It has been such a long time since I posted. I think I faced the so-called writer's block. Also the season finali of the Doctor Who 7 swept me away with the news that Matt would bow out soon from the series. He is my first doctor, so I was so sad...

Anyway Sherlokians! The clock is ticking and hopefully we will watch the season 3 episodes, and will go through the hell like we do now while waiting for the season 4. Well, so much for the babbling.

My deepest thanks go to my old friend, AreYouReady for the wonderful betareading. Hope all of you enjoyed this story. Have a great summer.


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